


Four Roses, Neat

by fuzzballsheltiepants



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: AFTG Valentine's Day Exchange 2019, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Andrew is sometimes ruled by the gay, Kissing, M/M, Or Is he?, Reporter Andrew, Reporter Neil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 20:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17753366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzzballsheltiepants/pseuds/fuzzballsheltiepants
Summary: Andrew's a reporter who just hit on the story of his life.  Neil is his coworker who might not be what he seems.





	Four Roses, Neat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sisaloofafump](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sisaloofafump/gifts).



> This is for @sisaloofafump (if you have an AO3 account let me know and I'll properly gift it). I hope I didn't take too many liberties with the prompt! Thanks as always to Nicole @tntwme for the beta and @loriica for the title suggestion.
> 
> A couple songs I listened to while mulling over this story: [You're Somebody Else](https://open.spotify.com/track/536vha5aAUhlb50NGDfzfa) by Flora Cash, and [White Lie](https://open.spotify.com/track/0omH6Dbw21O4Hw46cTbMBF) by the Lumineers.

Andrew shoved his way through the crowded club, using his elbows to keep the larger bodies around him out of his space.  He scanned the bar, looking for that familiar shock of reddish brown hair. If Neil was here, he wasn’t in any of his usual spots.  Cursing under his breath, Andrew picked a seat at the far end of the bar, where he could monitor comings and goings.

A nod at Roland had a scotch sliding his way across the counter.  A lifted eyebrow followed, but Andrew shook his head. Roland would be nothing more than a distraction, and while usually he welcomed the release—welcomed anything that took his mind off Neil—he couldn’t afford to be caught with his pants down, figuratively or otherwise.  Not tonight.

Too soon, the ice was rattling in his empty glass.  The whisky was doing nothing to quiet the pounding of his heart, which echoed the bass flooding the club.  This story that he had stumbled upon...it was going to make his career. Investigative journalism wasn’t dead, and he was going to prove it.

A body pressed up against the back of his stool, too tall and stringy to be Neil.  Andrew leaned against the counter, sipping at the second whisky Roland had sent his way.  “Hey, man,” a voice shouted near his ear. “Wanna get out of here?”

Andrew looked over his shoulder at that, irritation crawling across his skin like an itch.  The man was too close, pupils too dilated, expression too desperate. Cracker dust, probably; maybe something stronger, given his sunken cheeks and the waxy look to him.  “Fuck off.”

“Aww, c’mon, don’t be like that.”  A hand reached for him, and Andrew grabbed the wrist and twisted until the man cursed in his ear.

“I said, fuck off.”

“What, like you’re going to do better than me tonight?”

“If he’s going home with anyone tonight, it’s going to be me.”  Neil breezed past them both and flopped into the stool next to Andrew, a vicious smile on his face.  “You heard the man, fuck off.”

Andrew released him, wiping his hands on his pants reflexively.  Neil always said shit like that but it never went anywhere; all that mattered was the asshole did, in fact, fuck off.  Roland poured Neil’s drink: Four Roses, neat, and they all knew Neil would only drink the one then switch to water. 

Neil took a sip and studied Andrew.  “What’s with you? You look like you’ve pulled the pin on a hand grenade and aren’t sure if you’re going to throw it or not.”

It was such a weird analogy, such a  _ Neil _ analogy, that Andrew snorted.  “How the fuck do you write for a living?”

Neil shrugged with his typical casual elegance that drove Andrew insane.  “Our editor is terrible at her job.” Andrew struggled not to laugh; it was a close thing.  

“That why you’re late?”

“Nah, I was getting all dressed up for our date.”  He gave Andrew a crooked smile, the real one, not the one that made him look like a wolf ready to tear out someone’s throat.  Andrew eyed Neil’s black skinny jeans and too-large Henley, his freshly combed hair. For Neil, this was dressed up, and Andrew couldn’t help but wonder what the fuck was going on.

He shook his head, trying to clear it.  It was impossible that he was drunk, not on a glass and a half of whisky.  But then, Neil was a hundred proof all on his own, and Andrew had almost forgotten why he needed to talk to him.  

“I’ve got a story,” Andrew murmured, not totally sure if his voice would carry over the music.

It did.  Neil shot him a look, that gleam in his eyes.  Andrew had never known anyone whose blue eyes looked like flames, but everything about Neil was fire.  “Big?”

“Could be.  Still got a lot of work to do to be sure.”  He forced his fingers to stop tapping his glass.  “My source said one of my coworkers knew about it.  I was thinking maybe he meant you.”

Neil laughed, but there was something behind it, the edge of a hidden blade.  “Doubtful.” He took a sip of his bourbon, watching Andrew out of the corner of his eye.  

“What.”

“Nothing.”

But Andrew didn’t believe him.  He knew Neil, better than almost anyone, and while Neil was an adept liar he almost never lied to Andrew.  His gut tightened, almost painfully, at the thought that Neil might be mixed up in this clusterfuck of a situation. 

“Neil, if you know something…”

Neil looked down at his lap, then took a deep breath and glanced back up at Andrew through his ridiculous lashes.  “Off the record?”

“If you need to.”  Andrew would’ve preferred to have this discussion in private, but there was little chance of them being overheard here, in their little corner, under the cover of music and dancing feet.

“Off the record, I was thinking maybe you wanted to kiss me.”

The room tilted.  Andrew looked at Neil again, at the charcoal gray that set off his eyes and hair, the cut of his lips, the angle of his jaw that had always reminded Andrew of someone, though he’d never been bothered to figure out who.  The defiant look in his crystal eyes. He cursed silently to himself; why now? After years of wanting and useless flirting and wasting time with Roland in the back…

He drained his whisky, wondering briefly if Neil could hear the synapses in his brain short-circuiting.  “I thought you weren’t into that shit.” He set his glass down with a little more force than was strictly necessary.

“I never have been.”  The edge was gone, his face open and honest.  “But I don’t know, the past few months I’ve just kind of...wondered.  About you.”

Andrew thought about that, about the little shifts he had noticed and put down to wishful thinking.  About Neil finding more excuses to be around him, about the careful blankness of his face when Andrew would return from a stint in the back room with Roland.   _ If he’s going home with anyone tonight, it’s going to be me. _

Feeling like he was in a dream, Andrew pulled out his wallet and threw down a few bills.  Neil never looked away from him, but that damn smile was back, the one hardly anyone but Andrew ever saw.  He wasn’t even sure how they ended up outside of the club, but there they were, in the alley behind it, an alley that Andrew knew well but could not have described in that moment if his life had depended on it.  All he was conscious of was Neil standing so close they were almost touching, the heat of his body through his shirt, the want, the want, the want— 

“Yes or no?” Andrew almost growled the question out as he backed Neil against the brick of the club wall, still not letting himself touch.

“Yes.”  It was barely a word; barely a breath, really, but it was enough.  

He yielded so easily, the sweet taste of him going straight to Andrew’s head like the bourbon he had been drinking.  But there was nothing passive about him; he kissed back with all the fire Andrew had ever seen hiding in his eyes. It was so easy, too easy, to lose himself in this.  

A distant part of his brain, the one that had learned the too-hard lessons, practically screamed at him to stop, to back away; it was too vulnerable like this.  But Neil didn’t touch him. He didn’t take. He just gave. And when Andrew finally did pull back, lips raw and breathing ragged, Neil bent his head and brushed his mouth, feather-light, beneath Andrew’s jaw.

They stood there for a while, not touching, not talking, listening to their breathing slow and the muted pulse that made it through the club walls.  Neil looked as wrecked as Andrew felt, and somehow that made all of this worse. He didn’t know if he wanted to escape or drag Neil to his car and do filthy things to him.

“Fuck,” Neil whispered, or that’s what the exhalation sounded like.  “Why didn’t we do that before?”

_ Because you didn’t want to, _ Andrew wanted to say.  But he just shrugged, as if none of it mattered.  As if his whole world hadn’t gone sideways in the past twenty minutes.  

Or really in the past six hours.  Neil let his head drop back against the bricks.  “What did you want to ask me, before?”

Andrew hummed and leaned in to nip at Neil’s jaw.  That turned into several more minutes of kissing before he pulled away again.  “Wesninski.”

He could’ve sworn Neil stopped breathing for a fraction of a second, but his voice was steady, amused even, when he said, “Gesundheit?”

Andrew huffed.  “You know the missing person story I’ve been working on.”  Neil nodded slowly. “Well, it’s looking like it might be related to the mafia.  My source pointed me in the direction of the Butcher of Baltimore.”

“He’s dead.”

“Yeah.  Killed ten years ago, cops still aren’t sure if it was a hit or if his own men turned on him.”

“So, what, you’ve got a ghost setting up shop in Columbia?”

“Not a ghost.”  Andrew paused, then threw the grenade.  “His son. Nathaniel.”

There was something in the way Neil’s mouth twisted, a there-and-gone flicker in his eyes, that made Andrew lean back to study him.  But he must have imagined it. This was  _ Neil _ ; he had spent the last three years verbally sparring with him, drinking with him, mocking the dwindling newsroom with him.  Neil, who was now looking at him steadily, waiting for Andrew to continue with a patience he rarely showed anyone else.

“It makes sense.  The M.O. is the same, we now have two people who have disappeared without a trace, both known dealers.  Plus Higgins says they’ve noticed a drop in the small dealer busts. And my source has been right on so far.”

“This is the guy with the accent?”

Andrew nodded confirmation.  It was the only detail he’d told Neil, back when the source had first made contact, and somehow he wasn’t surprised Neil had remembered.  He still wasn’t sure if the accent was English or Scottish or South African or Australian; all he knew was the man sounded like he should be narrating documentaries about sea turtles or some shit, instead of telling him about possible mobsters in his backyard.

Neil hummed and leaned in.  That invitation was impossible to resist, and for a few minutes all thoughts of criminals, mafia, writing, his job, his life, the existence of the world around him—all of it was gone.  This time when they broke apart Andrew’s pants were uncomfortably tight, and he found himself wondering what sort of noises he could coax out of Neil if they went back to his apartment.  Hell, he wasn’t picky; he was willing to figure that out right there in the alley, if only it were a little bit warmer.

But when Andrew let his hand drop onto Neil’s chest, resting over the thump of his heart, Neil shifted a little to the side, a clear signal.  Andrew stepped back, swallowing down regret he didn’t believe in and lust he most certainly did. And ugh, the smile Neil gave him...it was soft and devastating and Andrew was pretty sure it was going to prove to be his demise.  

Andrew watched as Neil walked down the alley, feet steadying as they approached the street.  He paused next to the dumpster and turned back. “Have you ever seen a picture of him? Nathan Wesninski?”

Andrew blinked, trying to clear the fog that had taken over his brain.  By the time he managed, Neil had disappeared into the street. He thought back to ten years ago, when he was a journalism student eagerly reading all he could about the takedown.  There had been a picture, yes; of Nathan Wesninski and his wife and young son, from years before. Dredging it up from the depths of his memory was a challenge, but when he did, his heart stopped.  The face, Nathan’s face…

He ran down the alley, his breath coming short.  There were people in the street, but no sign of Neil.  Cursing, Andrew punched the dumpster, relishing the clang and the pain that shot through his knuckles.  He ran his aching hand through his hair, thinking back to everything he knew, about the Butcher, about Neil.  About the Butcher’s dead British wife, and the lilt of the voice on the other end of the private line. About the way he had spent two months when he first met Neil trying to figure out why he looked so familiar.  And about the slow change in the police blotter over the past three years, the little hints that the city of Columbia was undergoing a power shift. When the fuck had he gotten so soft? He should have seen this, should have made the connection with the timing.  Should have known that Neil was too good to be true. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket; he pulled it out, took a deep breath, and hit Accept.  “Why?”

“Sometimes you can’t escape your past.”  

Andrew’s nails dug into his palms; he forced himself not to rub the scars lining his forearms and he wondered what of his own history Neil had managed to dig up.  “Why tell me? Why now?”

“I don’t know.”  And there it was; that accursed accent.  He wondered how he had missed Neil’s voice hidden beneath it before; how willfully had he deceived himself? He opened his mouth to say something, he wasn’t sure what. Maybe to tell him to go fuck himself; maybe to tell him to run, before Andrew published what he knew.  But then—

“Don’t we sometimes do strange things for the people we love?”

Neil’s voice cracked on the last word; Andrew’s hand pressed against his chest, and he looked down, half expecting to see blood on his fingers given the pain lancing through him.  “Neil—” But there was sudden, final silence as the line went dead.

**Author's Note:**

> Funny story: this is the second fic I started for the prompt (which was Crime Boss Stuff). The first one hit 8k words and was only about 1/4 done and I just absolutely did not have time to finish it. So there may be a second, totally unrelated fic from that prompt appearing at some point in the very distant future.


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